


Future Flowers

by Stonestrewn



Series: Dinner Time [5]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-11
Updated: 2015-09-11
Packaged: 2018-04-20 05:43:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4775792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stonestrewn/pseuds/Stonestrewn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Winter Palace,” Skinner says with lips curled like someone just took a shit in her mouth. “Fuck this place.”</p><p>“Yes,” Dalish replies. “Yes, let’s.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Future Flowers

**Author's Note:**

> This is simultaneously the crudest and the sappiest thing I've ever written. 
> 
> The story takes place during the events of the Trespasser DLC, but contains no spoilers and doesn't reference anything that happens in it besides being set in the general location. It does, however call on some stuff that happened in my last Dinner fic, ["Seconds, Seasons"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3788452). A couple things here will make more sense if you've read that first, but it's not at a must.

“Winter Palace,” Skinner says with lips curled like someone just took a shit in her mouth. She says it in common, too, and that’s probably meant to signify the insult. Not that Skinner calls it common. _Fereldan_ , she’s known to snort, _it’s Fereldan, the fuck isn’t common_ and then follows a string of curses in Orlesian punctuated with a gob of spit on the floor.

Dalish squints up against the white walls and towers, glittering and golden in the sun. She’s really just returning the insult, Skinner is. The building hits your eyes like a flash of lightning aimed straight into the pupils, the bell tower pointing towards the sky in equal parts triumph and malice. The soil here is drenched in sorrow. This castle is a cackle at a burial.

But what squares Skinner’s shoulders, what sends the tension up her thighs - Dalish thinks it’s rather the chance of one of the masks in the crowd hiding the face of an uncle of one of the nobles who bled out after Skinner’s dagger ran across his throat. There could be brothers of the chevalier who was found with an arrow jutting from her temple, there could be guards who were there the day they dragged the guilty knife-ear to the dungeons. The Chargers deal with nobles daily, happy to take their work and money and to mock their customs over free ale, but there are parts of this country they skirt if they can. Time and gold and distance has made sure no one can get her, but Dalish wonders how much that knowledge means in Skinner’s feet, in her hands, if her blood is running thin and fast, ready to fight, flight, whatever.

It’s all different now. She isn’t alone anymore, none of them are.

Dalish sidles up to Skinner, wraps her arms around her waist to remind her of that, rests her chin on Skinner’s shoulder, though she has to curve her spine uncomfortably to reach down. She nudges her earlobe with her nose, and Skinner lifts a hand to brush Dalish’s cheek with coarse, blunt fingertips.

“Fuck this place,” Skinner says.

“Yes,” Dalish replies. “Yes, let’s.”

\--

She comes in a bed as large as an aravel with Skinner sucking on her clit and wipes herself off with a silk pillowcase after. They use up all the scented oils in the bathroom of some comtesse, until they’re slick all over. Skinner fists her hands in Dalish’s hair in front of the large mirrors in the sculpture gallery, she licks along the edge of her ear behind a garden shed and straddles her right in the middle of the empty ballroom dance floor. They do it in a lion feet bathtub, in beds of every size, on tables and in chairs, one time perched atop a bookshelf in the library. Whenever they finish infusing a room with the smell of their arousal and release, Skinner rummages through drawers with still sticky fingers and fills her pouch with whatever articles of makeup she can find.

“You can’t just go around stealing shit,” Krem says in his best Lieutenant voice a day later, crossing his arms, because Skinner has been spreading her haul out across the bardisk, testing tinted lip balms on the back of her hand.

“We can,” she says. “We have.” She turns to leave.

Krem almost grabs her shoulder before he catches himself. It’s a good way to lose a finger.

“We’re guests here,” he says instead. “Behave.”

“I’m a guest nowhere.” Skinner spins back around and throws out her arms. Her grin is wide and vicious and Dalish’s clit throbs in response. “I own this place. Claimed it. Dalish, too.”

“Okay. Right. Great,” Krem says. The tips of his ears are red. Dalish knows that if Skinner ever let him, he’d be on his knees in front of her in a hot second. She can sympathize with the feeling, but she still adds:

“Skinner means we had sex everywhere. It was very nice,” because he’s cute when he’s groaning in despair.

“Are you gonna tell the Chief?” Skinner asks, tilting her head back so she can sneer him in the face. Krem groans louder.

“All he’ll do is ask for details.”

That makes them both laugh, together, in throaty chuckles so similar it makes Dalish’s heart throb this time.

Her people. Her family, her lover and her friend.

“Just don’t get caught, all right?” Krem pleads.

Skinner snorts. “Have some faith, little man.”

\--

They get caught by a handmaid inside one of the royal closets, half dressed in appropriated silky underthings and tangled up in satin scarves. Skinner may snarl at fashion, but when Dalish covers her butt with something soft, pale pink and lacy, she wets her lips and her eyes turn eager. When the door opens she has just finished ripping the flimsy fabric open with her teeth to get to Dalish’s slit underneath, snarling like a varghest all the while, and when Dalish snaps her legs closed in surprise at the closet doors opening she squashes Skinner’s left ear with her thigh.

It’s still looking a little bent when they’re sitting lined up and fully dressed in front of the Chief, Krem at his side.

“Hang on, I’m trying to get the full picture here,” the Bull says. “So, when you say you could see through, do you mean sheer or with these strategic little peep-holes?”

“Sheer, Ser,” Dalish says. She sits with her back straight and her hands neatly folded in her lap. “Lace trim and I think perhaps eight very tiny bows.”

“ _Nice_. Good taste, you two,” the Iron Bull says.

“And at which point during ‘getting lost in the corridors on your way to the kitchen’ did your own clothes come off and the sheer stuff get on, exactly?” Krem says.

“When we were beginning to despair of ever finding our way out of that forest of fabrics.”

“It got hot,” Skinner adds, helpfully.

“It is rather unseasonably warm, don’t you agree?” Dalish says, and adds with a stroke of bullshitting genius: “Elves have a much lower resistance to heat than humans. Old elven physiology. It was a dire case of strip or die, and we didn’t want to inconvenience anyone by perishing all over the gowns. Which were all very lovely.”

Krem gives her his best attempts at a glare, but she can see his mouth is twitching.

“Is that what we’re telling the courtiers, Chief?” he says.

“Why not?” The Bull scratches his chin. “Elves in heat. Sounds legit to me.”

He’s not entirely with them, Dalish thinks. His thoughts are drifting, something is going on elsewhere and in his mind he’s already there, on the same business that took him out of the palace all of yesterday night. No one has told them what, and they don’t ask about Inquisitor business, just like they didn’t use to ask about his letters, the name behind the name. Usually he tells them eventually, anyway.

“How’d you get her into the frou-frou?” he asks Skinner. “Didn’t think that was Dalish’s thing.”

“Promised an Orlesian Tickler,” Skinner says.

“Ah. Yeah. That’ll do it.”

He looks as smug as Skinner does, and proud. Always so proud of them for all sorts of reasons, and sometimes Dalish feels oddly proud of him for being so proud. It’s so well done of him. Building up that pride until it’s a thing so real you could touch it, raise it as shelter over their heads.

“The ruined clothing will come out of your pay,” Krem says. “And we’re very disappointed in you.”

He’s going to be writing that letter later tonight and it won’t say ‘elves in heat.’ The excuses will be vague but correct and the apologies just the right degree of formal, all in his neat, contained handwriting. The paper will have the Inquisition insignia on top as a reminder of affiliations. Krem has gotten good at this. He grumbles about it sometimes, but the responsibility that comes with the task suits him, fits just right on his broad shoulders. It’s like he’s grown several inches since they joined the Inquisition, since he started taking them on missions under his own command, on his own initiative. He’s filled the absence in leadership left by the Chief’s new obligations, and Dalish is proud of him, too. Despite the increased nagging, which is quite generous of her, she thinks.

The Bull stands. “Gotta go, guys,” he says, giving Krem a look that says ‘sorry,’ ‘good job,’ and ‘we’ll talk about you not letting me know about this earlier’ all at once.

“Seriously, though.” He looks at Dalish and Skinner. “This screwing all over the place stops. Find yourself a spot of your own, away from everyone. Then stick to it. We clear? And Skinner, return anything you took that hasn’t been inside you.”

Dalish nods. Skinner huffs. Krem rubs his nose, already on his way out from the pavilion they took over for this impromptu disciplinary meeting.

Skinner leaves right away, but Dalish lingers.

“Are you all right, Ser?” she calls after the Bull. He smiles back at her.

“Sure. One last thing to care of, then I think it’s time to sit down and have a talk about the future.”

“Is the future the Chargers?” she asks, just to hear him say it.

“Always.”

“Be careful out there, Ser.”

“Never.” He wink-blinks with his one eye. “Now go get your girl.”

\--

They follow the order. It takes some searching, but they find an almost-balcony, a little shelf with a railing but no doors or windows on the walls. To reach it you have to climb up some scaffolding, scoot along a narrow ledge and climb over a statue of a woman with a gigantic bosom holding a sword wrong, but then you’re rewarded with a gorgeous view of the landscape spread out like a tapestry below and no one can see you from either courtyard.

The first time they bring their stuff over - pillows and Skinner’s knives and makeup stash and Dalish’s herbs and pilfered cakes and borrowed wine - It gives them both some trouble. Dalish’s legs tremble the whole way. She’s not the limber one. It’s Skinner who scales walls and whose arms and legs always do what she tells them. She’s boxy, a dense package of muscle, but she’s quicker on her feet than anyone Dalish has ever met.  
Only today she’s not. She’s moving carefully, bowlegged with gritted teeth.

“It’s the cream,” she says at Dalish’s look of concern. “I took some on, and…” She gestures toward her crotch.

“You put cream on your... “ Dalish furrows her brows. “But why? Which cream?”

“To smell good,” Skinner growls, but she looks miserable, tugging at her pants to give her vulva more room. She nods toward a jar on top of her pack. “Gave me a rash.”

Dalish picks it up and gives the contents a hesitant sniff. “Oh, Skinner! There’s marjoram in this, now we know it’s marjoram you’re allergic to!”

“Fantastic.”

“This should teach you not to rub things you don’t know what they are onto sensitive areas,” Dalish says.

Stitches says the very same thing twenty minutes later, as he hands Skinner a small pot with a specially made salve.

“Don’t tell Krem,” Skinner mutters, accepting it like she would a poisonous spider.

“I will certainly tell Krem,” Stitches says goodnaturedly. “That boy has earned himself a laugh on your behalf.”

“I don’t know how much it helps,” Dalish whispers in Skinner’s ear on their way back to their new lair, “but I enjoy your natural smell much, much more.”

“So it was for nothing,” Skinner says, but her scowl does dissipate.

Once they’ve made the climb, equally gingerly for once, Skinner sinks down on the pillow pile and shimmies out of her pants with a long sigh. Her vulva does look painful. Her mound is an angry red beneath the tufts of hair, with little prickly bumps just rising. She takes the salve out of her pocket and Dalish snatches it out of her hand.

“Let me,” she says, and she already knows Skinner is okay with it or else she would never have let Dalish catch the pot. Skinner’s reflexes are unmatched.

Dalish kneels beside Skinner, who spreads her legs and lies back. At the very first touch against her inflamed skin she twitches, but as Dalish gently spreads the cooling salve, she moans.

“Stitches is magic.”

“He is."

“Fucking rude. But magic.”

“Rude magic,” Dalish agrees and slides a finger in between Skinner’s labia. She’s surprised to find her damp. When she looks up at Skinner’s face, her expression is sheepish.

“Doesn’t hurt much anymore,” she mumbles.

Dalish just smiles. Dipping her fingers into the salve and scooping up a generous amount, she turns her attention to Skinner’s clit this time. Slow, careful strokes, meant to tease and coax the pleasure from the corners pain pushed it into. Soon, Skinners hips are rolling with the motions.

Her lips are parted, her eyes are closed. Her head is tipped back, baring her throat, and her fingers open and close around the edges of a velvet cushion. Dalish speeds up gradually, enjoying the changes it brings in Skinner’s body: the muscles in her thighs playing under the skin as she strains up against Dalish’s touch, her nipples hardening into little brown pebbles, the quickening of her breath, her moans.

She’s rarely so soft and relaxed during sex - Skinner likes the taking, the thrill, the hot and hard and fast - and it’s a treat to watch her. She’s beautiful. Long flickering lashes hiding a dazed gaze. The short, broad lines of her body that is small and strong and lovely, her body that Dalish knows so well by now. She runs her palm up and down Skinner’s stomach while she works her clit faster, leading her towards release, and when she finally comes, wordless and breathless, she feels the muscles clenching as her abdomen goes taut and her feet twitch with the orgasm.

Skinner comes down slowly, laying there gasping for minutes while the sensations fade. It’s a gift, this. Dalish’s guarded woman unguarded, spread and open, inviting her, and only ever her, to touch as much as she wants.

“How do you feel now?” Dalish asks when Skinner meets her eyes at last.

“Good,” she says. She tentatively reaches down and touches herself. “Guess some cunt juice also helped.”

Dalish makes a face. “That sounds so gross.”

“Cunt juice?”

“Yes.”

“Mmm.” Skinner smiles, as serene as she gets. “Cunt juice…”

“Oh, stop it.”

“Want me to shut up?”

“Please!”

“So shut me up.”

There’s no need to explain further. Dalish puts the salve away. She sheds her armor, her mail and plate and tunic, pulls off her boots and wriggles out of her tights. She crawls up to Skinner’s head, straddles her, the blood rushing to her clit when Skinner smacks her lips.

She lowers herself until she feels Skinner’s tongue on her labia, fingers digging into her thighs, and her eyes fall closed.

\--

After, they share a bottle of wine sitting on the railing, admiring the view. Rolling hills, fertile fields, roads like pieces of strings tying the colorful little villages together. The land yet cries over crimes past, Dalish knows, but oh, it’s still so beautiful.

Pale, silvery clouds are gathering in the sky - it’s going to rain. Dalish doesn’t mind it. It will be a light summer rain, the kind that doesn’t chill, only washes away the dust and leaves the greenery greener. She’s content. With the weather, with her orgasm, with the wine, everything. It’s a good day, one of many in a good life. She takes a deep swig from the bottle, passes it on.

Skinner takes it but doesn’t drink. She taps her nails against the glass for a bit, then puts it away on the floor.

“I’ve something for you,” she says.

“Is it a thing in your pants?”

“I’m not wearing any- No. Wait.” She slides gracefully off the railing, and walks over to her pack. Stitches is magic. Already the salve has worked well enough that you would only know she had a crotch-rash if you know her very, very well, if you’d been gobbling up her every move like a starved halla for years. She comes back with something clutched in her hand, sits down closer to Dalish on the railing.

“Here,” and she drops the little silvery thing into Dalish’s lap.

It’s an amulet. Made of silverite, on a braided leather cord. The cord is unmistakably Skinner’s handiwork, but the amulet Dalish doesn’t recognize. It isn’t look like anything you’d see in stores or crafted by enchanters. It’s a little too thin, since it holds no rune or other magical components, and there’s an intricate engraving on one side, like a flower.

“Oh,” Dalish says. She turns it over in her hand. It’s so delicate, so fine, even on a cloudy afternoon as this it shines. The backside is so smooth and polished she can see her own reflection as clear as in any mirror.

“Do you like?” Skinner’s nails go tap-tap-tap against the stone, and Dalish smiles wide as she can to save her from the uncertainty.

“It is beautiful! When did you get this? Did you buy it, or-”

“Had it made. Dagna made it.”

Dalish goes rigid. “It won’t explode, will it?”

“No. She wanted to make it do a lot of...weird. But I said no.”

“Oh, good. Thank you,” Dalish says, and pecks Skinner on the lips. “Dagna is skilled, this is lovely.”

“I choose the best.”

“And she’s sweet, isn’t she? I’ve always liked dwarf girls.”

“Didn’t get you that just so you could talk about other women,” Skinner says, but she looks anything but unhappy. They’ve discussed Dagna many times before, whether they would rather take her or Scout Harding into their bed.

Nevertheless, Dalish leans in to give Skinner a deeper kiss.

“Thank you, I do mean it,” she says. And she does: it’s easily one of the most beautiful things she’s ever owned, and that includes her... her bow. She holds it up into the light so she can see the engraving better, and suddenly she realizes how familiar it is.

“Is this…” It feels silly when she tries to say it out loud. But Skinner nods.

“Your ice flowers that you make sometimes.” She gives Dalish a wry grin. “Your old elven ice flower trick.”

“My flower,” Dalish says, petting the image, the perfect reproduction of every single intricate line. “You know who is my flower as well? You are my flower.”

“Ugh,” Skinner says, but it comes out more laughter than disgust.

“Did you make the image this is based on?”

“Yeah, carved it. Didn’t keep the carving though, if you wanted it?”

“Oh no, this is fine. This is perfect, this is-” She puts the amulet around her neck. “A little like a proposal, don’t you think?”

“Sure.”

Dalish blinks. She meant it in jest and never expected anything but a shove and a scoff in response, but Skinner is looking at her with intent brown eyes, serious, and is she blushing? She might just be. Her feet only barely reach the floor and her toes are twitching, clenching and unclenching.

“Skinner…?”

“Because it’s us, right? It’s always gonna be us.” She gets on her feet, paces back and forth only a couple steps in each direction. “This is a shit world full of shit people. But you know, if it was me? Being Herald, Inquisitor, whatever, if I had to save the world? I would do it, because I want to live in this world. With you. Life is so much shit, but I want to live it anyway. It’s your fault, not your fault only, but your fault by a lot.”

She looks at Dalish, and she looks furious. Like she’s just come out of fighting a thousand guards through miles of prison dungeons. Perhaps she has, in a sense.

The amulet has warmed against Dalish’s skin, and the cord is soft and supple around her neck. Skinner made it from scratch: shot the nug, cured the leather, cut the strips and braided them together, all for her.

“I do,” Dalish says.

“You, what?”

“I do want to marry you, if you’re asking.”

Skinner moves to put her hands in her pockets, realizes she isn’t wearing pants, and crosses her arms instead.

“Sure.”

Her smile is like the warm hearth after a long day of walking.

Dalish goes to her. She presses their hips together, takes Skinner’s arms and wraps them around her instead, runs her hands down Skinner’s back, through her hair, touches their foreheads together.

The rain starts falling, heavy drops on the back of her neck. Skinner looks up.

“How about that,” she says. “Sky’s juicing herself just for us.”

Dalish laughs. She hugs Skinner closer, dips her, kisses her as deep and hard as she can, kisses her foul-mouthed, rough-spun, hard-handed woman, kisses the woman whose wife she’s going to be, who will share her life forever, with their friends and their work and their love. Forever.

She kisses her, and the future unfolds like a flower.

**Author's Note:**

> Next week on Dinner Time: The Chargers Plan A Wedding.


End file.
